Bad Puns and Moustaches
by Muragaragah
Summary: America comes up with a silly plan that involves the use of a terrible pun and Romano's moustache. Quick little oneshot, total fluff. USUK.


_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Hetalia. Copyrights go to Hidekaz Himaruya.  
>This story was inspired by a shirt I really want. It's totally awesome. ;D<br>By the way, this thing's not really edited. /lazy  
>As always, reviews = love. They keep me writing.<br>Enjoy!~  
><strong>Side Note: Please take a few minutes to answer the poll in my profile? =) Cookies to you if you do!~<strong>_

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><p>Bad Puns and Moustaches<p>

_Only America._

A huge pearly grin adorned America's face as he crossed the spacious conference room, converging on the thin Italian standing beside the happy-go-lucky Spaniard who busied himself with munching on a tomato. "Romano!" the caramel-haired nation called as he prodded the hot-headed Italian's shoulder, "I have a huge favor to ask you!"

Romano's distinct curl bobbed in the air as he spun on his heel, one umber brow arched in inquiry. "What do you want, America?"

"Can I borrow your moustache for a while?" America's smile seemed to widen with anticipation.

Romano's hand darted into the pocket of his jeans and rummaged around for a bit before withdrawing a bushy moustache complete with Italian-esque curls at its ends and handing it over to America. "Don't get any hamburgers or whatever stuck in it."

America threw his arms around the now-flustered Italian as he accepted the moustache, earning an uncharacteristic glare from the nearby Spaniard. "Thanks Romano! I'll have it back to you in mint condish!"

The blonde's hand disappeared into his unzipped bomber jacket and produced a roll of Scotch tape; with one hand he expertly snatched a tiny piece from the roll as he staggered back across the room, rolling the piece until it formed a cylinder shape with the sticky side exposed, attaching it to the backside of the moustache and subsequently just above his upper lip while dropping the tape back inside his pocket. Cerulean eyes swept the room until he found France inconspicuously leaning against the wall dangerously close to the unsuspecting Canadian - America broke into a dash and flashed a clumsy peace sign as he halted in front of the garishly-garbed Frenchman. "Hey France, you seen Britain anywhere?"

France's brow quirked as he nodded, gesturing toward the door leading out of the conference room. "_Oui, _he's out in the courtyard. Why do you have that disgusting caterpillar stuck on your lip, _Amerique?"_

A cunning smirk upturned America's mouth before he replied, "I have a plan in store for Britain, that's why! Thanks a bunch, Francypants!"

America took off out of the room before France could question him further - he rushed down the stairs, knocking Prussia over as he tried to sneak up on Austria as America's boots hit the ground floor. It took the flaxen-haired superpower no time to barge through the glass-encased door leading out into the lavishly-landscaped courtyard.

Britain silently perched upon an old-fashioned bench directly underneath the expansive, verdant canopy of a weeping willow in early bloom, fingers hooked around the dainty porcelain handle of one of his favorite teacups. His brilliant chartreuse eyes seemed to follow something unseen a few feet in front of him as he sipped his tea, the aroma of fresh bermagot and light lemongrass travelled on the faint breeze that blew across the earth, enveloping America as he advanced toward the dazed island nation. "England!" he called once he had gotten within steps of the fallow-haired man, abruptly shattering the atmosphere laden with pensive serenity and solitude.

An impressive brow rose as England's viridian gaze unfixed from whatever had caught his eye and instead trained upon the cheery face of his caller. "For God's sake, what the hell do you have plastered to your upper lip?"

America stopped directly in front of Britain, who had now placed his teacup onto its saucer right beside him on the empty bench. The bespectacled nation whisked the glasses off of his nose and placed them atop his head, taking caution not to disturb the cowlick he had acquired centuries ago as the opalescent grin he wore just seconds before disappeared from his face. He turned to the left and eyed the ground as he spoke, his tone lower than usual and ornamented with an irresistible layer of seduction, "Britain..." his head turned as their eyes met; he had to fight to keep the smile off of his face and out of his voice, "I moustache you a question..."

Britain's expression morphed from calm curiosity to skeptical amusement: inwardly he decided to play along with America's little charade. "And what, pray tell, would that be, America?"

America swooped in close as he tore the moustache from his lip, one hand clutching the back of the bench as the other cupped Britain's cheek; Britain's apricot complexion had tinged rose and then flat-out crimson from America's gesture - he had never been so close to the other before though he could not deny the fact that he had wanted to for innumerable years. Their noses almost touched, he could smell the sugary peppermint that still lingered on America's breath as he spoke from the piece of gum that he had bugged the living hell out of Britain for hours earlier. "Kiss me."

"That's not a-" Britain's complaint died in his throat as America leaned in and claimed his lips, the robin's egg eyes that Britain adored peering at him at half-mast, confessing volumes of emotion and longing that could never have true justice done to them by spoken word. America's thumb ghosted across the plane of Britain's cheek before he slowly pulled away, staring into the pools of polished malachite that comprised the straight-laced Brit's eyes. "-question," Britain finished the statement that he had started what felt like ages ago; he couldn't conceal the shade of a smile that curled upon his lips.

America shrugged as the larger than life grin he had previously worn replaced itself upon his face; he lowered his glasses back into their rightful place on the bridge of his nose as he stooped and scooped up Romano's moustache that he had dropped in the heat of the moment. He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around the sinewy midsection of the Englishman, burying his face into the fibers of Britain's military uniform that smelled faintly of freshly-laundered cotton. "You know," Britain broke the gentle silence that surrounded them, gazing down upon the country below him as his arms coiled around America's broad frame, "only you could think up such an absurd pun, don a moustache to further implement the pun, and not even follow it through. You can be so ridiculous sometimes, America... maybe that's why I love you."

The tops of America's ears tinted a shade akin to red wine as he shifted to look up at Britain, pure bliss as innocent as a child's naivety shimmering within eyes as deep and clear as the Atlantic in summer. "I love you too, Iggy."

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><p><em>Fin.<br>_


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